


But How Much More Me

by Devilc



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Iron Fist (Comic), Marvel Comics (616)
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-15
Updated: 2010-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt and Danny come to an even deeper understanding of what it means to be ... them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But How Much More Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Synecdochic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Synecdochic).



> Written for Synecdochic to cheer her up on a crappy day. A bit of identity porn inspired by #3 on [her list of preferred kinks](http://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/206414.html).
> 
> Title and quotation taken from a line in John Donne's [Meditation XVII](http://isu.indstate.edu/ilnprof/ENG451/ISLAND/text.html).
> 
> Legalese: Daredevil and Iron Fist are copyright Marvel Comics. This is a bit of whatiffery inspired by canon written as a challenge and to bring cheer. It is a labor of love, not lucre.

>   
> _"No man is an island, entire of itself"_   
> 

  
"Go fuck yourself!"

Words any New Yorker will hear at some point, especially one born and raised in Hells Kitchen.

Words any criminal defense attorney will hear, too. Sometimes from a disgruntled client, sometimes from the DA.

Matt sighs, closes the window, picks up the phone, thinks, "Oh, why not?" and makes the call.

Danny Rand comes over, sees the suit waiting for him on the couch, gives a soft "hmmn" upon seeing it --

(But his heartbeat tells a different tale.)

\-- and wordlessly starts undressing.

And why shouldn't he do it on the spot? It's not like he's giving Matt an eyefull, or putting on a strip tease.

Except, he is. Over the din of the air conditioner, the hum of the refrigerator, the thousand little sounds of the other inhabitants of the building, the constant dull roar that is The Big Apple in the background, Matt can hear every article of clothing that drops, knows what it is, too. Can hear the different weights of the fabrics as they hit the floor, knows the hoodie from the jeans, can smell the different bursts of scent that whoosh off them as they land. He sucks in a deep breath (chews, swallows and digests the smörgåsbord of odors coming from Danny and his clothes) blows it out slowly in an effort to calm himself.

(An-ti-ci-PA-tion. It's the best and the worst part of the whole thing.)

As soon as he's dressed in the Daredevil suit, Danny steps in front of Matt, waiting. He knows the drill.

The first thing Matt does is take take a deep breath, which he blows out as he steps in to Danny's space. And then? He draws another deep breath and ... savors ... the sounds and smells coming off of Danny.

Savors Danny's scent mingled with his scent, worked deep into the fibers of the suit.

Savors the sound of Danny's own deep breath -- diaphragmatic -- and the slow and steady exhale, a pushing of air out of the lungs (Danny's last meal was a salad of mixed greens and baked chicken, and there was a lot of mustard in the vinaigrette dressing) as Danny's heart beat slows. Ah, meditation techniques.

Danny shifts slightly, and Matt can hear the sound of fabric slipping over skin.

The suit fits him like a glove, like it was made for him.

But it wasn't.

Almost tentatively, Matt reaches out and strokes a hand across the top of that broad shoulder and down that sleekly muscled arm.

This man who is him, and yet not him.

This man who fits the suit not made for him.

This man who fits the suit not made for him and plays the role of Daredevil so well that he fooled the masses on more than one occasion.

This man who fits the suit not made for him and plays the role of Daredevil so well that he fooled the government and went to the Negative Zone in Matt's stead.

(And some day, Matt will ask him about that.)

(But not today.)

Buddhist to his Catholic ... both are well versed in the ways of prayer beads, mysticism, meditation, and above all, rote ritual crafted to be at once utterly familiar and grounding, and yet it becomes the pathway to something bigger, better, and beyond the flesh.

But by the same measure, both of them glory in their flesh, delight in what their bodies can do. Making it look easy. Making it look like a dance. (Even when it's not.)

Both of them fearless, marked for it, blessed by it. (Burdened by it, too.)

This man who can be him and yet, the man he cannot be.

Danny's breath ghosts across Matt's lips just before he kisses him. "I wish I could see the look in your eyes," he says when they break.

"Likewise," Matt replies and gently backs him down the hall to the bed, hungrily kissing him all the way.

In the bedroom, he slowly strips the suit from him, kissing and licking and caressing each inch of skin as it is revealed.

(He can feel the Chi crackling through Danny -- the thing that makes him Iron Fist, a man Matt cannot be -- barely perceptible against cheek as he nuzzles against the sharp blade of a hip. It's akin to the feeling of staticky clothes fresh out of the drier, only a thousand times more delicate.)

Finally he draws Danny deep into his mouth. The size and shape are within millimeters of his and he can smell traces of himself in the rich and heady Dannysmell that emanates from that thatch of wiry curls. And Danny's moving, shifting, doing something, but Matt can't quite parse it because of the almost overload of scent, taste, feel. He's drowning, but in the very best way.

Danny's hand snakes into his hair and he can feel the Chi crackling so much he knows Danny is using his powers, only he has no idea what for until he can see.

(And Danny can _SMELL_ and _HEAR_ , and _TASTE_ , and _FEEL_. And he had no idea that it could be like this. That anything could be like this.)

(And Matt had no idea that Danny could do this, reach out and merge them this way.)

It's so overwhelming that he can feel Danny's hand clenching too-tight in his hair, feel Danny strain to sort it, orient ~~him~~ theirself, _maintain the connection_.

(He can feel the hair tickle through their fingers even as the feels their fingers tickle through his hair.)

He can see himself -- short brush-cut coppery red hair, bluish milk-glass eyes wide with surprise/delight/wonderment, throbbing purple-red cock right next to a pair of spit shiny lips, made lush and swollen and red by kisses, an actinic glow suffuses the hand carded into his hair, short golden hairs cover the lean and muscular legs framing him -- and shuts his eyes (and he can _still see_ ) as he sucks ~~Danny's~~ their cock back into his mouth and feels the stubble of his face chafing the delicate skin of his thighs.

It's hard to tell where he begins and Danny ends.

And through it all -- through the feel of getting the perfect blow-job because you're the one giving it -- through this overwhelming thing that's going to be the best thing ever if it doesn't fry every synapse in their brains, is the joy of discovering that this man who is him that he cannot be _loves_ the feeling of being _him_.

More than ever, now that he knows what that means.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note pt 2: There are a lot of he's and hims and I know it can make for a degree of ambiguity and confusion, but given the theme of this work, I did it on purpose.


End file.
